Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 5, No. 31, May, 1860 by Various

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Poor Mrs. Sprowle was fighting the party over in her dream; and as thevisionary custard-cups crashed down through one lobe of her brain intoanother, she gave a start as if an inch of lightning from a quartLeyden jar had jumped into one of her knuckles with its sudden andlively _poonk_!

Mrs. Sprowle raised herself, by a sort of spasm, _sur son seant_, asthey say in France,--up on end, as we have it in New England. Shelooked first to the left, then to the right, then straight before her,apparently without seeing anything, and at last slowly settled down,with her two eyes, blank of any particular meaning, directed upon theColonel.

"Over!" said Mrs. Sprowle, who began to define her position atlast,--"over! I should think 'twas time 'twas over! It's lasted ahundud year. I've been workin' for that party longer 'n Methuselah'slifetime, sence I been asleep. The pies wouldn' bake, and the blo'mongewouldn' set, and the ice-cream wouldn' freeze, and all the folks kep'comin' 'n' comin' 'n' comin',--everybody I ever knew in all mylife,--some of 'em's been dead this twenty year 'n' more,--'n' nothin'for 'em to eat nor drink. The fire wouldn' burn to cook anything, allwe could do. We blowed with the belluses, 'n' we stuffed in paper 'n'pitch-pine kindlin's, but nothin' could make that fire burn; 'n' allthe time the folks kep' comin', as if they'd never stop,--'n' nothin'for 'em but empty dishes, 'n' all the borrowed chaney slippin' round onthe waiters 'n' chippin' 'n' crackin'. I wouldn' go through what I beenthrough t'-night for all th' money in th' Bank,--I do believe it'sharder t' have a party than t'"----

Mrs. Sprowle stated the case strongly.

The Colonel said he didn't know how that might be. She was a betterjudge than he was. It was bother enough, anyhow, and he was glad thatit was over. After this, the worthy pair commenced preparations forrejoining the waking world, and in due time proceeded down-stairs.

Everybody was late that morning, and nothing had got put to rights. Thehouse looked as if a small army had been quartered in it over night.The tables were of course in huge disorder, after the protractedassault they had undergone. There had been a great battle evidently,and it had gone against the provisions. Some points had been stormed,and all their defences annihilated, but here and there were centres ofresistance which had held out against all attacks,--large rounds ofbeef, and solid loaves of cake, against which the inexperienced hadwasted their energies in the enthusiasm of youth or uninformedmaturity, while the longer-headed guests were making discoveries of"shell-oysters" and "patridges" and similar delicacies.

The breakfast was naturally of a somewhat fragmentary character. Achicken that had lost his legs in the service of the preceding campaignwas once more put on duty. A great ham stuck with cloves, as SaintSebastian was with arrows, was again offered for martyrdom. It wouldhave been a pleasant sight for a medical man of a speculative turn tohave seen the prospect before the Colonel's family of the next week'sbreakfasts, dinners, and suppers. The trail that one of these greatrural parties leaves after it is one of its most formidableconsiderations. Every door-handle in the house is suggestive ofsweetmeats for the next week, at least. The most unnatural articles ofdiet displace the frugal but nutritious food of unconvulsed periods ofexistence. If there is a walking infant about the house, it willcertainly have a more or less fatal fit from overmuch of someindigestible delicacy. Before the week is out, everybody will be tiredto death of sugary forms of nourishment and long to see the last of theremnants of the festival.

The family had not yet arrived at this condition. On the contrary, thefirst inspection of the tables suggested the prospect of days ofunstinted luxury; and the younger portion of the household, especially,were in a state of great excitement as the account of stock was takenwith reference to future internal investments, Some curious facts cameto light during these researches.

"Where's all the oranges gone to?" said Mrs. Sprowle. "I expectedthere'd be ever so many of 'em left. I didn't see many of the folkseatin' oranges. Where's the skins of 'em? There ought to be six dozenorange-skins round on the plates, and there a'n't one dozen. And allthe small cakes, too, and all the sugar things that was stuck on thebig cakes.--Has anybody counted the spoons? Some of 'em got swallered,perhaps. I hope they was plated ones, if they did!"

The failure of the morning's orange-crop and the deficit in otherexpected residual delicacies were not very difficult to account for. Inmany of the two-story Rockland families, and in those favoredhouseholds of the neighboring villages whose members had been invitedto the great party, there was a very general excitement among theyounger people on the morning after the great event. "Did y' bring homesomethin' from the party? What is it? What is it? Is it frut-cake? Isit nuts and oranges and apples? Give me some! Give _me_ some!" Such aconcert of treble voices uttering accents like these had not been heardsince the great Temperance Festival with the celebrated "colation" inthe open air under the trees of the Parnassian Grove,--as the place waschristened by the young ladies of the Institute. The cry of thechildren was not in vain. From the pockets of demure fathers, from thebags of sharp-eyed spinsters, from the folded handkerchiefs oflight-fingered sisters, from the tall hats of sly-winking brothers,there was a resurrection of the missing oranges and cakes andsugar-things in many a rejoicing family-circle, enough to astonish themost hardened "caterer" that ever contracted to feed a thousand peopleunder canvas.

The tender recollection of those dear little ones whom extreme youth orother pressing considerations detain from scenes of festivity--a traitof affection by no means uncommon among our thoughtful people--dignifies those social meetings where it is manifested, andsheds a ray of sunshine on our common nature. It is "an oasis in thedesert,"--to use the striking expression of the last year's"Valedictorian" of the Apollinean Institute. In the midst of so muchthat is purely selfish, it is delightful to meet such disinterestedcare for others. When a large family of children are expecting aparent's return from an entertainment, it will often require greatexertions on his part to provide himself so as to meet their reasonableexpectations. A few rules are worth remembering by all who attendanniversary dinners in Faneuil Hall or elsewhere. Thus: Lobsters' clawsare always acceptable to children of all ages. Oranges and apples areto be taken _one at a time_, until the coat-pockets begin to becomeinconveniently heavy. Cakes are injured by sitting upon them; it is,therefore, well to carry a stout tin box of a size to hold as manypieces as there are children in the domestic circle. A very pleasantamusement, at the close of one of these banquets, is grabbing for theflowers with which the table is embellished. These will please theladies at home very greatly, and, if the children are at the same timeabundantly supplied with fruits, nuts, cakes, and any little ornamentalarticles of confectionery which are of a nature to be unostentatiouslyremoved, the kind-hearted parent will make a whole household happy,without any additional expense beyond the outlay for his ticket.

There were fragmentary delicacies enough left, of one kind and another,at any rate, to make all the Colonel's family uncomfortable for thenext week. It bid fair to take as long to get rid of the remains of thegreat party as it had taken to make ready for it.

In the mean time Mr. Bernard had been dreaming, as young men dream, ofgliding shapes with bright eyes and burning cheeks, strangely blendedwith red planets and hissing meteors, and, shining over all, the white,unwandering star of the North, girt with its tethered constellations.

After breakfast he walked into the parlor, where he found Miss Darley.She was alone, and, holding a school-book in her hand, was at work withone of the morning's lessons. She hardly noticed him as he entered,being very busy with her book,--and he paused a moment before speaking,and looked at her with a kind of reverence. It would not have beenstrictly true to call her beautiful. For years,--since her earliestwomanhood,--those slender hands had taken the bread which repaid thetoil of heart and brain from the coarse palms that offered it in theworld's rude market. It was not for herself alone that she had barteredaway the life of her youth, that she had breathed the hot air ofschool-rooms, that she had forced her intelligence to posture beforeher will, as the exigencies of her place required,--waking to mentallabor,--sleeping to dream of problems,--rolling up the stone ofeducation for an endless twelvemonth's term, to find it at the bottomof the hill again when another year called her to its renewedduties,--schooling her temper in unending inward and outward conflicts,until neither dulness nor obstinacy nor ingratitude nor insolence couldreach her serene self-possession. Not for herself alone. Poorly as herprodigal labors were repaid in proportion to the waste of life theycost, her value was too well established to leave her without what,under other circumstances, would have been a more than sufficientcompensation. But there were others who looked to her in their need,and so the modest fountain which might have been filled to its brim wascontinually drained through silent-flowing, hidden sluices.

Out of such a life, inherited from a race which had lived in conditionsnot unlike her own, _beauty_, in the common sense of the term, couldhardly find leisure to develop and shape itself. For it must beremembered, that symmetry and elegance of features and figure, likeperfectly formed crystals in the mineral world, are reached only byinsuring a certain necessary repose to individuals and to generations.Human beauty is an agricultural product in the country, growing up inmen and women as in corn and cattle, where the soil is good. It is aluxury almost monopolized by the rich in cities, bred under glass liketheir forced pine-apples and peaches. Both in city and country, theevolution of the physical harmonics which make music to our eyesrequires a combination of favorable circumstances, of whichalternations of unburdened tranquillity with intervals of variedexcitement of mind and body are among the most important. Wheresufficient excitement is wanting, as often happens in the country, thefeatures, however rich in red and white, get heavy, and the movementssluggish; where excitement is furnished in excess, as is frequentlythe case in cities, the contours and colors are impoverished, and thenerves begin to make their existence known to the consciousness, as theface very soon informs us.

Helen Darley could not, in the nature of things, have possessed thekind of beauty which pleases the common taste. Her eye was calm,sad-looking, her features very still, except when her pleasant smilechanged them for a moment, all her outlines were delicate, her voicewas very gentle, but somewhat subdued by years of thoughtful labor, andon her smooth forehead one little hinted line whispered already thatCare was beginning to mark the trace which Time sooner or later wouldmake a furrow. She could not be a beauty; if she had been, it wouldhave been much harder for many persons to be interested in her. For,although in the abstract we all love beauty, and although, if we weresent naked souls into some ultramundane warehouse of soul-less bodiesand told to select one to our liking, we should each choose a handsomeone, and never think of the consequences,--it is quite certain thatbeauty carries an atmosphere of repulsion as well as of attraction withit, alike in both sexes. We may be well assured that there are manypersons who no more think of specializing their love of the other sexupon one endowed with signal beauty, than they think of wanting greatdiamonds or thousand-dollar horses. No man or woman can appropriatebeauty without paying for it,--in endowments, in fortune, in position,in self-surrender, or other valuable stock; and there are a great manywho are too poor, too ordinary, too humble, too busy, too proud, to payany of these prices for it. So the unbeautiful get many more loversthan the beauties; only, as there are more of them, their lovers arespread thinner and do not make so much show.

The young master stood looking at Helen Darley with a kind of tenderadmiration. She was such a picture of the martyr by the slow socialcombustive process, that it almost seemed to him he could see a palelambent aureole round her head.

"I did not see you at the great party last evening," he said,presently.

She looked up and answered, "No. I have not much taste for such largecompanies. Besides, I do not feel as if my time belonged to me after ithas been paid for. There is always something to do, some lesson orexercise,--and it so happened, I was very busy last night with the newproblems in geometry. I hope you had a good time."

"Very. Two or three of our girls were there. Rosa Milburn. What abeauty she is! I wonder what she feeds on! Wine and musk and chloroformand coals of fire, I believe; I didn't think there was such color andflavor in a woman outside the tropics."

Miss Darley smiled rather faintly; the imagery was not just to hertaste: _femineity_ often finds it very hard to accept the fact of_muliebrity_.

"Was"----?

She stopped short; but her question had asked itself.

"Elsie there? She was, for an hour or so. She looked frightfullyhandsome. I meant to have spoken to her, but she slipped away before Iknew it."

"I thought she meant to go to the party," said Miss Darley. "Did shelook at you?"

"She did. Why?"

"And you did not speak to her?"

"No. I should have spoken to her, but she was gone when I looked forher. A strange creature! Isn't there an odd sort of fascination abouther? You have not explained all the mystery about the girl. What doesshe come to this school for? She seems to do pretty much as she likesabout studying."

Miss Darley answered in very low tones. "It was a fancy of hers tocome, and they let her have her way. I don't know what there is abouther, except that she seems to take my life out of me when she looks atme. I don't like to ask other people about our girls. She says verylittle to anybody, and studies, or makes believe study, almost what shelikes. I don't know what she is," (Miss Darley laid her hand,trembling, on the young master's sleeve,) "but I can tell when she isin the room without seeing or hearing her. Oh, Mr. Langdon, I am weakand nervous, and no doubt foolish,--but--if there were women now, asin the days of our Saviour, possessed of devils, I should think therewas something not human looking out of Elsie Venner's eyes!"

The poor girl's breast rose and fell tumultuously as she spoke, and hervoice labored, as if some obstruction were rising in her throat.

A scene might possibly have come of it, but the door opened. Mr. SilasPeckham. Miss Darley got away as soon as she well could.

"Why did not Miss Darley go to the party last evening?" said Mr.Bernard.

"Well, the fact is," answered Mr. Silas Peckham, "Miss Darley, she'spootty much took up with the school. She's an industris youngwoman,--yis, she _is_ industris,--but perhaps she a'n't quite so spry aworker as some. Maybe, considerin' she's paid for her time, she isn'tfur out o' the way in occoopyin' herself evenin's,--that is, if so beshe a'n't smart enough to finish up all her work in the daytime.Edoocation is the great business of the Institoot. Amoosements areobjec's of a secondary natur', accordin' to my v'oo." [The unspellablepronunciation of this word is the touchstone of New EnglandBrahminism.]

Mr. Bernard drew a deep breath, his thin nostrils dilating, as if theair did not rush in fast enough to cool his blood, while Silas Peckhamwas speaking. The Head of the Apollinean Institute delivered himself ofthese judicious sentiments in that peculiar acid, penetrating tone,wadded with a nasal twang, which not rarely becomes hereditary afterthree or four generations raised upon east winds, salt fish, and large,white-bellied, pickled cucumbers. He spoke deliberately, as if weighinghis words well, so that, during his few remarks, Mr. Bernard had timefor a mental accompaniment with variations, accented by certain bodilychanges, which escaped Mr. Peckham's observation. First there was afeeling of disgust and shame at hearing Helen Darley spoken of like adumb working animal. That sent the blood up into his cheeks. Then theslur upon her probable want of force--_her_ incapacity, who made thecharacter of the school and left this man to pocket its profits--sent athrill of the old Wentworth fire through him, so that his muscleshardened, his hands closed, and he took the measure of Mr. SilasPeckham, to see if his head would strike the wall in case he went overbackwards all of a sudden. This would not do, of course, and so thethrill passed off and the muscles softened again. Then came that stateof tenderness in the heart, overlying wrath in the stomach, in whichthe eyes grow moist like a woman's, and there is also a greatboiling-up of objectionable terms out of the deep-water vocabulary, sothat Prudence and Propriety and all the other pious Ps have to jumpupon the lid of speech to keep them from boiling _over_ into fiercearticulation. All this was internal, chiefly, and of course notrecognized by Mr. Silas Peckham. The idea, that any full-grown,sensible man should have any other notion than that of getting the mostwork for the least money out of his assistants, had never suggesteditself to him.

Mr. Bernard had gone through this paroxysm, and cooled down, in theperiod while Mr. Peckham was uttering these words in his thin, shallowwhine, twanging up into the frontal sinuses. What was the use of losinghis temper and throwing away his place, and so, among the consequenceswhich would necessarily follow, leaving the poor lady-teacher without afriend to stand by her ready to lay his hand on the grand-inquisitorbefore the windlass of his rack had taken one turn too many?

"No doubt, Mr. Peckham," he said, in a grave, calm voice, "there is agreat deal of work to be done in the school; but perhaps we candistribute the duties a little more evenly after a time. I shall lookover the girls' themes myself, after this week. Perhaps there will besome other parts of her labor that I can take on myself. We can arrangea new programme of studies and recitations."

"We can do that," said Mr. Silas Peckham. "But I don't proposemater'lly alterin' Miss Darley's dooties. I don't think she works tohurt herself. Some of the Trustees have proposed interdoosin' newbranches of study, and I expect you will be pootty much occoopied withthe dooties that belong to your place. On the Sabbath you will be ableto attend divine service three times, which is expected of ourteachers. I shall continoo myself to give Sabbath Scriptur'-readin's tothe young ladies. That is a solemn dooty I can't make up my mind tocommit to other people. My teachers enjoy the Lord's day as a day ofrest. In it they do no manner of work,--except in cases of necessity ormercy, such as fillin' out diplomas, or when we git crowded jest at theend of a term, or when there is an extry number of poopils, or otherProvidential call to dispense with the ordinance."

Mr. Bernard had a fine glow in his cheeks by this time,--doubtlesskindled by the thought of the kind consideration Mr. Peckham showed forhis subordinates in allowing them the between-meeting-time on Sundaysexcept for some special reason. But the morning was wearing away; so hewent to the school-room, taking leave very properly of his respectedprincipal, who soon took his hat and departed.

Mr. Peckham visited certain "stores" or shops, where he made inquiriesafter various articles in the provision-line, and effected a purchaseor two. Two or three barrels of potatoes, which had sprouted in apromising way, he secured at a bargain. A side of feminine beef wasalso obtained at a low figure. He was entirely satisfied with a coupleof barrels of flour, which, being invoiced "slightly damaged", were tobe had at a reasonable price.

After this, Silas Peckham felt in good spirits. He had done a prettystroke of business. It came into his head whether he might not followit up with a still more brilliant speculation. So he turned his stepsin the direction of Colonel Sprowle's.

It was now eleven o'clock, and the battlefield of last evening was aswe left it. Mr. Peckham's visit was unexpected, perhaps not very welltimed, but the Colonel received him civilly.

"Very hahnsome supper,--very hahnsome! Nothin' ever seen like it inRockland. Must have been a great heap of things left over."

The compliment was not ungrateful, and the Colonel acknowledged it bysmiling and saying, "I should think the' was a trifle! Come and look."

When Silas Peckham saw how many delicacies had survived the evening'sconflict, his commercial spirit rose at once to the point of aproposal.

"Colonel Sprowle," said he, "there's meat and cakes and pies andpickles enough on that table to spread a hahnsome colation. If you'dlike to trade reasonable, I think perhaps I should be willin' to take'em off your hands. There's been a talk about our havin' a celebrationin the Parnassian Grove, and I think I could work in what your folksdon't want and make myself whole by chargin' a small sum for tickets.Broken meats, of course, a'n't of the same valoo as fresh provisions;so I think you might be willin' to trade reasonable."

Mr. Peckham paused and rested on his proposal. It would not, perhaps,have been very extraordinary, if Colonel Sprowle had entertained theproposition. There is no telling beforehand how such things will strikepeople. It didn't happen to strike the Colonel favorably. He had alittle red-blooded manhood in him.

"Sell you them things to make a colation out of?" the Colonel replied."Walk up to that table, Mr. Peckham, and help yourself! Fill yourpockets, Mr. Peckham! Fetch a basket, and our hired folks shall fill itfull for ye! Send a cart, if y' like, 'n' carry off them leavin's tomake a celebration for your pupils with! Only let me tell ye this:--assure's my name's Hezekiah Spraowle, you'll be known through the taown'n' through the caounty, from that day forrard, as the Principal of theBroken-Victuals Institoot!"

Even provincial human-nature sometimes has a touch of sublimity aboutit. Mr. Silas Peckham had gone a little deeper than he meant, and comeupon the "hard pan," as the well-diggers call it, of the Colonel'scharacter, before he thought of it. A militia-colonel standing on hissentiments is not to be despised. That was shown pretty well in NewEngland two or three generations ago. There were a good many plainofficers that talked about their "rigiment" and their "caounty" whoknew very well how to say "Make ready!" "Take aim!" "Fire!"--in theface of a line of grenadiers with bullets in their guns and bayonets onthem. And though a rustic uniform is not always unexceptionable in itscut and trimmings, yet there was many an ill-made coat in those oldtimes that was good enough to be shown to the enemy's front rank, toooften to be left on the field with a round hole in its left lapel thatmatched another going right through the brave heart of the plaincountry captain or major or colonel who was buried in it under thecrimson turf.

Mr. Silas Peckham said little or nothing. His sensibilities were notacute, but he perceived that he had made a miscalculation. He hopedthat there was no offence,--thought it might have been mutooallyagreeable, conclooded he would give up the idee of a colation, andbacked himself out as if unwilling to expose the less guarded aspect ofhis person to the risk of accelerating impulses.

The Colonel shut the door,--cast his eye on the toe of his right boot,as if it had had a strong temptation,--looked at his watch, then roundthe room, and, going to a cupboard, swallowed a glass of deep-redbrandy and water to compose his feelings.

CHAPTER IX.

THE DOCTOR ORDERS THE BEST SULKY.

(_With a Digression on "Hired Help"_)

"Abel! Slip Cassia into the new sulky, and fetch her round."

Abel was Dr. Kittredge's hired man. He was born in New Hampshire, aqueer sort of a State, with fat streaks of soil and population wherethey breed giants in mind and body, and lean streaks which exportimperfectly nourished young men with promising but neglected appetites,who may be found in great numbers in all the large towns, or could beuntil of late years, when they have been half driven out of theirfavorite basement-stories by foreigners, and half coaxed away from themby California. New Hampshire is in more than one sense the Switzerlandof New England. The "Granite State" being naturally enough deficient inpudding-stone, its children are apt to wander southward in search ofthat deposit,--in the unpetrified condition.

Abel Stebbins was a good specimen of that extraordinary hybrid or mulebetween democracy and chrysocracy, a native-born New-Englandserving-man. The Old World has nothing at all like him. He is at oncean emperor and a subordinate. In one hand he holds one five-millionthpart (be the same more or less) of the power that sways the destiniesof the Great Republic. His other hand is in your boot, which he isabout to polish. It is impossible to turn a fellow-citizen whose votemay make his master--say, rather, employer--Governor or President, orwho may be one or both himself, into a flunky. That article must beimported ready-made from other centres of civilization. When aNew-Englander has lost his self-respect as a citizen and as a man, heis demoralized, and cannot be trusted with the money to pay for adinner.

It may be supposed, therefore, that this fractional emperor, thiscontinent-shaper, finds his position awkward when he goes into service,and that his employer is apt to find it still more embarrassing. It isalways under protest that the hired man does his duty. Every act ofservice is subject to the drawback, "I am as good as you are." This isso common, at least, as almost to be the rule, and partly accounts forthe rapid disappearance of the indigenous "domestic" from the basementsabove mentioned. Paleontologists will by-and-by be examining the floorsof our kitchens for tracks of the extinct native species ofserving-man. The female of the same race is fast dying out; indeed, thetime is not far distant when all the varieties of young _woman_ willhave vanished from New England, as the dodo has perished in theMauritius. The young _lady_ is all that we shall have left, and the mopand duster of the last Almira or Loizy will be stared at by generationsof Bridgets and Noras as that famous head and foot of the lost bird arestared at in the Ashmolean Museum.

Abel Stebbins, the Doctor's man, took the true American view of hisdifficult position. He sold his time to the Doctor, and, having soldit, he took care to fulfil his half of the bargain. The Doctor, on hispart, treated him, not like a gentleman, because one does not order agentleman to bring up his horse or run his errands, but he treated himlike a man. Every order was given in courteous terms. His reasonableprivileges were respected as much as if they had been guarantied underhand and seal. The Doctor lent him books from his own library, and gavehim all friendly counsel, as if he were a son or a younger brother.

Abel had Revolutionary blood in his veins, and though he saw fit to"hire out," he could never stand the word "servant," or considerhimself the inferior one of the two high contracting parties. When hecame to live with the Doctor, he made up his mind he would dismiss theold gentleman, if he did not behave according to his notions ofpropriety. But he soon found that the Doctor was one of the right sort,and so determined to keep him. The Doctor soon found, on his side, thathe had a trustworthy, intelligent fellow, who would be invaluable tohim, if he only let him have his own way of doing what was to be done.

The Doctor's hired man had not the manners of a French valet. He wasgrave and taciturn for the most part, he never bowed and rarely smiled,but was always at work in the daytime and always reading in theevening. He was hostler, and did all the housework that a man couldproperly do, would go to the door or "tend table," bought theprovisions for the family,--in short, did almost everything for thembut get their clothing. There was no office in a perfectly appointedhousehold, from that of steward down to that of stable-boy, which hedid not cheerfully assume. His round of work not consuming all hisenergies, he must needs cultivate the Doctor's garden, which he kept inone perpetual bloom, from the blowing of the first crocus to the fadingof the last dahlia.

This garden was Abel's poem. Its half-dozen beds were so many cantos.Nature crowded them for him with imagery such as no Laureate could copyin the cold mosaic of language. The rhythm of alternating dawn andsunset, the strophe and antistrophe still perceptible through all thesudden shifts of our dithyrambic seasons and echoed in correspondingfloral harmonies, made melody in the soul of Abel, the plain serving-man. It softened his whole otherwise rigid aspect. He worshipped Godaccording to the strict way of his fathers; but a florist's Puritanismis always colored by the petals of his flowers,--and Nature never showshim a black corolla.

Perhaps he may have little or nothing to do in this narrative; but asthere must be some who confound the New-England _hired man_,native-born, with the _servant_ of foreign birth, and as there is thedifference of two continents and two civilizations between them, it didnot seem fair to let Abel bring round the Doctor's mare and sulkywithout touching his features in half-shadow into our background.

The Doctor's mare, Cassia, was so called by her master from hercinnamon color, cassia being one of the professional names for thatspice or drug. She was of the shade we call sorrel, or, as anEnglishman would perhaps say, chestnut,--a genuine "Morgan" mare, witha low forehand, as is common in this breed, but with strong quartersand flat hocks, well ribbed up, with a good eye and a pair of livelyears,--a first-rate doctor's beast,--would stand until her harnessdropped off her back at the door of a tedious case, and trot over hilland dale thirty miles in three hours, if there was a child in the nextcounty with a bean in its windpipe and the Doctor gave her a hint ofthe fact. Cassia was not large, but she had a good deal of action, andwas the Doctor's show-horse. There were two other animals in hisstable: Quassia or Quashy, the black horse, and Caustic, the old bay,with whom he jogged round the village.

"A long ride to-day?" said Abel, as he brought up the equipage.

"Just out of the village,--that's all.--There's a kink in hermane,--pull it out, will you?"

"Goin' to visit some of the great folks," Abel said to himself. "Wonderwho it is."--Then to the Doctor,--"Anybody get sick at Sprowles's? Theysay Deacon Soper had a fit, after eatin' some o' their frozenvictuals."

The Doctor smiled. He guessed the Deacon would do well enough. He wasonly going to ride over to the Dudley mansion-house.

CHAPTER X.

THE DOCTOR CALLS ON ELSIE VENNER.

If that primitive physician, CHIRON, M.D., appears as a Centaur, as welook at him through the lapse of thirty centuries, the moderncountry-doctor, if he could be seen about thirty miles off, could notbe distinguished from a wheel-animalcule. He _inhabits_ awheel-carriage. He thinks of stationary dwellings as Long Tom Coffindid of land in general; a house may be well enough for incidentalpurposes, but for a "stiddy" residence give him a "kerridge." If he isclassified in the Linnaean scale, he must be set down thus: Genus_Homo_; Species _Rotifer infusorius_,--the wheel-animal of infusions.

The Dudley mansion was not a mile from the Doctor's; but it neveroccurred to him to think of walking to see any of his patients'families, if he had any professional object in his visit. Whenever thenarrow sulky turned in at a gate, the rustic who was digging potatoes,or hoeing corn, or swishing through the grass with his scythe inwave-like crescents, or stepping short behind a loaded wheel-barrow,or trudging lazily by the side of the swinging, loose-throated,short-legged oxen, rocking along the road as if they had just beenlanded after a three-months' voyage,--the toiling native, whatever hewas doing, stopped and looked up at the house the doctor was visiting.

"Somebody sick over there t' Haynes's. Guess th' old man's ailin'ag'in. Winder's haaef-way open in the chamber,--shouldn't wonder 'f hewas dead and laid aout. Docterin' a'n't no use, when y' see the windersopen like that. Wahl, money a'n't much to speak of to th' old man naow!He don't want but _tew cents_,--and old Widah Peake, she knows what hewants them for!"

This is only meant as a sample of the kind of way they used to think ortalk, when the narrow sulky turned in at the gate of some house wherethere was a visit to be made.

Oh, that narrow sulky! What hopes, what fears, what comfort, whatanguish, what despair, in the roll of its coming or its parting wheels!In the spring, when the old people get the coughs which give them a fewshakes and their lives drop in pieces like the ashes of a burned threadwhich have kept the threadlike shape until they were stirred,--in thehot summer noons, when the strong man comes in from the fields, likethe son of the Shunamite, crying, "My head, my head,"--in the dyingautumn days, when youth and maiden lie fever-stricken in many ahousehold, still-faced, dull-eyed, dark-flushed, dry-lipped,low-muttering in their daylight dreams, their fingers moving singlylike those of slumbering harpers,--in the dead winter, when the whiteplague of the North has caged its wasted victims, shuddering as theythink of the frozen soil which must be quarried like rock to receivethem, if their perpetual convalescence should happen to be interferedwith by any untoward accident,--at every season, the narrow sulkyrolled round freighted with unmeasured burdens of joy and woe.

The Doctor drove along the southern foot of The Mountain. The "Dudleymansion" was near the eastern edge of this declivity, where it rosesteepest, with baldest cliffs and densest patches of over-hanging wood.It seemed almost too steep to climb, but a practised eye could see froma distance the zigzag lines of the sheep-paths which scaled it likeminiature Alpine roads. A few hundred feet up The Mountain's side was adark, deep dell, unwooded, save for a few spindling, crazy--lookinghackmatacks or native larches, with pallid green tufts sticking outfantastically all over them. It shelved so deeply, that, while thehemlock-tassels were swinging on the trees around its border, all wouldbe still at its springy bottom, save that perhaps a single fern wouldwave slowly backward and forward like a sabre, with a twist as of afeathered oar,--and this, when not a breath could be felt, and everyother stem and blade were motionless. There was an old story of onehaving perished here in the winter of '86, and his body having beenfound in the spring,--whence its common name of "Dead-Man's Hollow."Higher up there were huge cliffs with chasms, and, it was thought,concealed caves, where in old times they said that Tories layhid,--some hinted not without occasional aid and comfort from theDudleys then living in the mansion-house. Still higher and farther westlay the accursed ledge,--shunned by all, unless it were now and then adaring youth, or a wandering naturalist who ventured to its edge in thehope of securing some infantile _Crotalus durissus_, who had not yetcut his poison-teeth.

Long, long ago, in old Colonial times, the Honorable Thomas Dudley,Esquire, a man of note and name and great resources, allied by descentto the family of "Tom Dudley," as the early Governor is sometimesirreverently called by our most venerable, but still youthfulantiquary,--and to the other public Dudleys, of course,--of all of whomhe made small account, as being himself an English gentleman, withlittle taste for the splendors of provincial office,--early in the lastcentury, Thomas Dudley had built this mansion. For several generationsit had been dwelt in by descendants of the same name, but soon afterthe Revolution it passed by marriage into the hands of the Venners, bywhom it had ever since been held and tenanted.

As the Doctor turned an angle in the road, all at once the stately oldhouse rose before him. It was a skilfully managed effect, as it wellmight be, for it was no vulgar English architect who had planned themansion and arranged its position and approach. The old house rosebefore the Doctor crowning a terraced garden, flanked at the left by adouble avenue of tall elms. The flower-beds were edged with box, whichdiffused around it that dreamy balsamic odor, full of ante-natalreminiscences of a lost Paradise, dimly fragrant as might be thebdellium of ancient Havilah, the land compassed by the river Pison thatwent out of Eden. The garden was somewhat neglected, but not indisgrace,--and in the time of tulips and hyacinths, of roses, of"snowballs," of honeysuckles, of lilacs, of syringas, it was rich withblossoms.

From the front-windows of the mansion the eye reached a far bluemountain-summit,--no rounded heap, such as often shuts in avillage-landscape, but a sharp peak, clean-angled as Ascutney from theDartmouth green. A wide gap through miles of woods had opened thisdistant view, and showed more, perhaps, than all the labors of thearchitect and the landscape-gardener the large style of the earlyDudleys.

The great stone chimney of the mansion-house was the centre from whichall the artificial features of the scene appeared to flow. The roofs,the gables, the dormer-windows, the porches, the clustered offices inthe rear, all seemed to crowd about the great chimney. To this centralpillar the paths all converged. The single poplar behind thehouse,--Nature is jealous of proud chimneys, and always loves to put apoplar near one, so that it may fling a leaf or two down its blackthroat every autumn,--the one tall poplar behind the house seemed tonod and whisper to the grave square column, the elms to sway theirbranches towards it. And when the blue smoke rose from its summit, itseemed to be wafted away to join the azure haze which hung around thepeak in the far distance, so that both should bathe in a commonatmosphere.

Behind the house were clumps of lilacs with a century's growth uponthem, and looking more like trees than like shrubs. Shaded by a groupof these was the ancient well, of huge circuit, and with a low archopening out of its wall about ten feet below the surface,--whether thedoor of a crypt for the concealment of treasure, or of a subterraneanpassage, or merely of a vault for keeping provisions cool in hotweather, opinions differed.

On looking at the house, it was plain that it was built with Old-Worldnotions of strength and durability, and, so far as might be, withOld-World materials. The hinges of the doors stretched out like arms,instead of like hands, as we make them. The bolts were massive enoughfor a donjon-keep. The small window-panes were actually inclosed in thewood of the sashes, instead of being stuck to them with putty, as inour modern windows. The broad staircase was of easy ascent, and wasguarded by quaintly turned and twisted balusters. The ceilings of thetwo rooms of state were moulded with medallion-portraits and rusticfigures, such as may have been seen by many readers in the famous oldPhilipse house,--Washington's headquarters,--in the town of Yonkers.The fireplaces, worthy of the wide-throated central chimney, werebordered by pictured tiles, some of them with Scripture stories, somewith Watteau-like figures,--tall damsels in slim waists and with spreadenough of skirt for a modern ballroom, with bowing, reclining, ormusical swains of what everybody calls the "conventional" sort,--thatis, the swain adapted to genteel society rather than to a literalsheep-compelling existence.

The house was furnished, soon after it was completed, with many heavyarticles made in London from a rare wood just then come into fashion,not so rare now, and commonly known as mahogany. Time had turned itvery dark, and the stately bedsteads and tall cabinets and claw-footedchairs and tables were in keeping with the sober dignity of the ancientmansion. The old "hangings" were yet preserved in the chambers, faded,but still showing their rich patterns,--properly entitled to theirname, for they were literally hung upon flat wooden frames liketrellis-work, which again were secured to the naked partitions.There were portraits of different date on the walls of the variousapartments, old painted coats-of-arms, bevel-edged mirrors, and in onesleeping-room a glass case of wax-work flowers and spangly symbols,with a legend signifying that E.M. (supposed to be Elizabeth Mascarene)wished not to be "forgot"

"When I am dead and lay'd in dust And all my bones are"----

Poor E.M.! Poor everybody that sighs for earthly remembrance in aplanet with a core of fire and a crust of fossils!

Such was the Dudley mansion-house,--for it kept its ancient name inspite of the change in the line of descent. Its spacious apartmentslooked dreary and desolate; for here Dudley Venner and his daughterdwelt by themselves, with such servants only as their quiet mode oflife required. He almost lived in his library, the western room on theground-floor. Its window looked upon a small plat of green, in themidst of which was a single grave marked by a plain marble slab. Exceptthis room, and the chamber where he slept, and the servants' wing, therest of the house was all Elsie's. She was always a restless, wanderingchild from her early years, and would have her little bed moved fromone chamber to another,--flitting round as the fancy took her.Sometimes she would drag a mat and a pillow into one of the great emptyrooms, and, wrapping herself in a shawl, coil up and go to sleep in acorner. Nothing frightened her; the "haunted" chamber, with the tornhangings that flapped like wings when there was air stirring, was oneof her favorite retreats.

She had been a very hard creature to manage. Her father couldinfluence, but not govern her. Old Sophy, born of a slave mother in thehouse, could do more with her than anybody, knowing her by longinstinctive study. The other servants were afraid of her. Her fatherhad sent for governesses, but none of them ever stayed long. She madethem nervous; one of them had a strange fit of sickness; not one ofthem ever came back to the house to see her. A young Spanish woman whotaught her dancing succeeded best with her, for she had a passion forthat exercise, and had mastered some of the most difficult dances.

Long before this period, she had manifested some most extraordinarysingularities of taste or instinct. The extreme sensitiveness of herfather on this point prevented any allusion to them; but there werestories floating round, some of them even getting into thepapers,--without her name, of course,--which were of a kind to exciteintense curiosity, if not more anxious feelings. This thing wascertain, that at the age of twelve she was missed one night, and wasfound sleeping in the open air under a tree, like a wild creature. Veryoften she would wander off by day, always without a companion, bringinghome with her a nest, a flower, or even a more questionable trophy ofher ramble, such as showed that there was no place where she was afraidto venture. Once in a while she had stayed out over night, in whichcase the alarm was spread, and men went in search of her, but neversuccessfully,--so that some said she hid herself in trees, and othersthat she had found one of the old Tory caves.

Some, of course, said she was a crazy girl, and ought to be sent to anAsylum. But old Dr. Kittredge had shaken his head, and told them tobear with her, and let her have her way as much as they could, butwatch her, as far as possible, without making her suspicious of them.He visited her now and then, under the pretext of seeing her father onbusiness, or of only making a friendly call.

* * * * *

The Doctor fastened his horse outside the gate, and walked up thegarden-alley. He stopped suddenly with a start. A strange sound hadjarred upon his ear. It was a sharp prolonged rattle, continuous, butrising and falling as if in rhythmical cadence. He moved softly towardsthe open window from which the sound seemed to proceed.

Elsie was alone in the room, dancing one of those wild Moorishfandangos, such as a _matador_ hot from the _Plaza de Toros_ of Sevilleor Madrid might love to lie and gaze at. She was a figure to look uponin silence. The dancing frenzy must have seized upon her while she wasdressing; for she was in her bodice, bare-armed, her hair floatingunbound far below the waist of her barred or banded skirt. She hadcaught up her castanets, and rattled them as she danced with a kind ofpassionate fierceness, her lithe body undulating with flexuous grace,her diamond eyes glittering, her round arms wreathing and unwinding,alive and vibrant to the tips of the slender fingers. Some passionseemed to exhaust itself in this dancing paroxysm; for all at once shereeled from the middle of the floor, and flung herself, as it were in acareless coil, upon a great tiger's-skin which was spread out in one cornerof the apartment.

The old Doctor stood motionless, looking at her as she lay panting onthe tawny, black-lined robe of the dead monster, which stretched outbeneath her, its rude flattened outline recalling the Terror of theJungle as he crouched for his fatal spring. In a few moments her headdrooped upon her arm, and her glittering eyes closed,--she wassleeping. He stood looking at her still, steadily, thoughtfully,tenderly. Presently he lifted his hand to his forehead, as if recallingsome fading remembrance of other years.

"Poor Catalina!"

This was all he said. He shook his head,--implying that his visit wouldbe in vain to-day,--returned to his sulky, and rode away, as if in adream.

* * * * *

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

The romance of "The Marble Faun" will be widely welcomed, not only forits intrinsic merits, but because it is a sign that its writer, after asilence of seven or eight years, has determined to resume his place inthe ranks of authorship. In his preface he tells us, that in each ofhis previous publications he had unconsciously one person in his eye,whom he styles his "gentle reader." He meant it "for that one congenialfriend, more comprehensive of his purposes, more appreciative of his.success, more indulgent of his short-comings, and, in all respects,closer and kinder than a brother,--that all-sympathizing critic, inshort, whom an author never actually meets, but to whom he implicitlymakes his appeal, whenever he is conscious of having done his best." Hebelieves that this reader did once exist for him, and duly received thescrolls he flung "upon whatever wind was blowing, in the faith thatthey would find him out." "But," he questions, "is he extant now? Inthese many years since he last heard from me, may he not have deemedhis earthly task accomplished, and have withdrawn to the paradise ofgentle readers, wherever it may be, to the enjoyments of which hiskindly charity on my behalf must surely have entitled him?" As we feelassured that Hawthorne's reputation has been steadily growing with thelapse of time, he has no cause to fear that the longevity of his gentlereader will not equal his own. As long as he writes, there will bereaders enough to admire and appreciate.

The publication of this new romance seems to offer us a fittingoccasion to attempt some description of the peculiarities of the geniusof which it is the latest offspring, and to hazard some judgments onits predecessors. It is more than twenty-five years since Hawthornebegan that remarkable series of stories and essays which are nowcollected in the volumes of "Twice-Told Tales," "The Snow Image andother Tales," and "Mosses from an Old Manse." From the first he wasrecognized by such readers as he chanced to find as a man of genius,yet for a long time he enjoyed, in his own words, the distinction ofbeing "the obscurest man of letters in America." His readers were"gentle" rather than enthusiastic; their fine delight in his creationswas a private perception of subtile excellences of thought and style,too refined and self-satisfying to be contagious; and the public wasuntouched, whilst the "gentle" reader was full of placid enjoyment.Indeed, we fear that this kind of reader is something of anEpicurean,--receives a new genius as a private blessing, sent by abenign Providence to quicken a new life in his somewhat jaded sense ofintellectual pleasure; and after having received a fresh sensation, heis apt to be serenely indifferent whether the creator of it starvebodily or pine mentally from the lack of a cordial human shout ofrecognition.

There would appear, on a slight view of the matter, no reason for thelittle notice which Hawthorne's early productions received. Thesubjects were mostly drawn from the traditions and written records ofNew England, and gave the "beautiful strangeness" of imagination toobjects, incidents, and characters which were familiar facts in thepopular mind. The style, while it had a purity, sweetness, and gracewhich satisfied the most fastidious and exacting taste, had, at thesame time, more than the simplicity and clearness of an ordinaryschool-book. But though the subjects and the style were thus popular,there was something in the shaping and informing spirit which failed toawaken interest, or awakened interest without exciting delight.Misanthropy, when it has its source in passion,--when it is fierce,bitter, fiery, and scornful,--when it vigorously echoes the aggressivediscontent of the world, and furiously tramples on the institutions andthe men luckily rather than rightfully in the ascendant,--this isalways popular; but a misanthropy which springs from insight,--amisanthropy which is lounging, languid, sad, and depressing,--amisanthropy which remorselessly looks through cursing misanthropes andchirping men of the world with the same sure, detecting glance ofreason,--a misanthropy which has no fanaticism, and which casts thesame ominous doubt on subjectively morbid as on subjectively moralaction,--a misanthropy which has no respect for impulses, but has aterrible perception of spiritual laws,--this is a misanthropy which canexpect no wide recognition; and it would be vain to deny that traces ofthis kind of misanthropy are to be found in Hawthorne's earlier, andare not altogether absent from his later works. He had spiritualinsight, but it did not penetrate to the sources of spiritual joy; andhis deepest glimpses of truth were calculated rather to sadden than toinspire. A blandly cynical distrust of human nature was the result ofhis most piercing glances into the human soul. He had humor, andsometimes humor of a delicious kind; but this sunshine of the soul wasbut sunshine breaking through or lighting up a sombre and ominouscloud. There was also observable in his earlier stories a lack of vigor,as if the power of his nature had been impaired by the veryprocess--which gave depth and excursiveness to his mental vision.Throughout, the impression is conveyed of a shy recluse, alternatelybashful in disposition and bold in thought, gifted with original andvarious capacities, but capacities which seemed to have developedthemselves in the shade, without sufficient energy of will or desire toforce them, except fitfully, into the sunlight. Shakspeare callsmoonlight the sunlight _sick_; and it is in some such moonlight of themind that the genius of Hawthorne found its first expression. A mildmelancholy, sometimes deepening into gloom, sometimes brightened into a"humorous sadness," characterized his early creations. Like his ownHepzibah Pyncheon, he appeared "to be walking in a dream"; or rather,the life and reality assumed by his emotions "made all outwardoccurrences unsubstantial, like the teasing phantasms of an unconsciousslumber." Though dealing largely in description, and with the mostaccurate perceptions of outward objects, he still, to use again his ownwords, gives the impression of a man "chiefly accustomed to lookinward, and to whom external matters are of little value or import,unless they bear relation to something within his own mind." But that"something within his own mind" was often an unpleasant something,perhaps a ghastly occult perception of deformity and sin in whatappeared outwardly fair and good; so that the reader felt a secretdissatisfaction with the disposition which directed the genius, even inthe homage he awarded to the genius itself. As psychological portraitsof morbid natures, his delineations of character might have given apurely intellectual satisfaction; but there was audible, to thedelicate ear, a faint and muffled growl of personal discontent, whichshowed they were not mere exercises of penetrating imaginativeanalysis, but had in them the morbid vitality of a despondent mood.

Yet, after admitting these peculiarities, nobody who is now drawn tothe "Twice-Told Tales," from his interest in the later romances ofHawthorne, can fail to wonder a little at the limited number of readersthey attracted on their original publication. For many of these storiesare at once a representation of early New-England life and a criticismon it. They have much of the deepest truth of history in them. "TheLegends of the Province House," "The Gray Champion," "The Gentle Boy,""The Minister's Black Veil," "Endicott and the Red Cross," not tomention others, contain important matter which cannot be found inBancroft or Grahame. They exhibit the inward struggles of New-Englandmen and women with some of the darkest problems of existence, and havemore vital import to thoughtful minds than the records of Indian orRevolutionary warfare. In the "Prophetic Pictures," "Fancy's Show-Box,""The Great Carbuncle," "The Haunted Mind," and "Edward Fane'sRose-Bud," there are flashes of moral insight, which light up, for themoment, the darkest recesses of the individual mind; and few sermonsreach to the depth of thought and sentiment from which these seeminglyairy sketches draw their sombre life. It is common, for instance, forreligious moralists to insist on the great spiritual truth, that wickedthoughts and impulses, which circumstances prevent from passing intowicked acts, are still deeds in the sight of God; but the living truthsubsides into a dead truism, as enforced by commonplace preachers. In"Fancy's Show-Box," Hawthorne seizes the prolific idea; and therespectable merchant and respected church-member, in the still hour ofhis own meditation, convicts himself of being a liar, cheat, thief,seducer, and murderer, as he casts his glance over the mental eventswhich form his spiritual biography. Interspersed with serious historiesand moralities like these, are others which embody the sweet andplayful, though still thoughtful and slightly saturnine action ofHawthorne's mind,--like "The Seven Vagabonds," "Snow-Flakes," "TheLily's Quest," "Mr. Higgenbotham's Catastrophe," "Little Annie'sRamble," "Sights from a Steeple," "Sunday at Home," and "A Rill fromthe Town-Pump."

The "Mosses from an Old Manse" are intellectually and artistically anadvance from the "Twice-Told Tales." The twenty-three stories andessays which make up the volumes are almost perfect of their kind. Eachis complete in itself, and many might be expanded into long romances bythe simple method of developing the possibilities of their shadowytypes of character into appropriate incidents. In description,narration, allegory, humor, reason, fancy, subtilty, inventiveness,they exceed the best productions of Addison; but they want Addison'ssensuous contentment and sweet and kindly spirit. Though the authordenies that he has exhibited his own individual attributes in these"Mosses," though he professes not to be "one of those supremelyhospitable people who serve up their own hearts delicately fried, withbrain-sauce, as a titbit for their beloved public,"--yet it is none theless apparent that he has diffused through each tale and sketch thelife of the mental mood to which it owed its existence, and that oneindividuality pervades and colors the whole collection. The defect ofthe serious stories is, that character is introduced, not as thinking,but as the illustration of thought. The persons are ghostly, with a sadlack of flesh and blood. They are phantasmal symbols of a reflectiveand imaginative analysis of human passions and aspirations. Thedialogue, especially, is bookish, as though the personages knew theirspeech was to be printed, and were careful of the collocation andrhythm of their words. The author throughout is evidently moreinterested in his large, wide, deep, indolently serene, and lazily sureand critical view of the conflict of ideas and passions, than he iswith the individuals who embody them. He shows moral insight withoutmoral earnestness. He cannot contract his mind to the patientdelineation of a moral individual, but attempts to use individuals inorder to express the last results of patient moral perception. YoungGoodman Brown and Roger Malvin are not persons; they are the mere,loose, personal expression of subtile thinking. "The CelestialRailroad," "The Procession of Life," "Earth's Holocaust," "The BosomSerpent," indicate thought of a character equally deep, delicate, andcomprehensive, but the characters are ghosts of men rather thansubstantial individualities. In the "Mosses from an Old Manse," we arereally studying the phenomena of human nature, while, for the time, webeguile ourselves into the belief that we are following the fortunes ofindividual natures.

Up to this time the writings of Hawthorne conveyed the impression of agenius in which insight so dominated over impulse, that it was rathermentally and morally curious than mentally and morally impassioned. Thequality evidently wanting to its full expression was intensity. In theromance of "The Scarlet Letter" he first made his genius efficient bypenetrating it with passion. This book forced itself into attention byits inherent power; and the author's name, previously known only to alimited circle of readers, suddenly became a familiar word in themouths of the great reading public of America and England. It may besaid, that it "captivated" nobody, but took everybody captive. Itspower could neither be denied nor resisted. There were growls ofdisapprobation from novel-readers, that Hester Prynne and the Rev. Mr.Dimmesdale were subjected to cruel punishments unknown to thejurisprudence of fiction,--that the author was an inquisitor who puthis victims on the rack,--and that neither amusement nor delightresulted from seeing the contortions and hearing the groans of thesemartyrs of sin; but the fact was no less plain that Hawthorne had foronce compelled the most superficial lovers of romance to submitthemselves to the magic of his genius. The readers of Dickens votedhim, with three times three, to the presidency of their republic ofletters; the readers of Hawthorne were caught by a _coup d'etat_, andfretfully submitted to a despot whom they could not depose.

The success of "The Scarlet Letter" is an example of the advantagewhich an author gains by the simple concentration of his powers on oneabsorbing subject. In the "Twice-Told Tales" and the "Mosses from anOld Manse" Hawthorne had exhibited a wider range of sight and insightthan in "The Scarlet Letter." Indeed, in the little sketch of "Endicottand the Red Cross," written twenty years before, he had included in afew sentences the whole matter which he afterwards treated in hisfamous story. In describing the various inhabitants of an earlyNew-England town, as far as they were representative, he touchesincidentally on a "young woman, with no mean share of beauty, whosedoom it was to wear the letter A on the breast of her gown, in the eyesof all the world and her own children. And even her own children knewwhat that initial signified. Sporting with her infamy, the lost anddesperate creature had embroidered the fatal token in scarlet cloth,with golden thread and the nicest art of needle-work; so that thecapital A might have been thought to mean Admirable, or anything,rather than Adulteress." Here is the germ of the whole pathos andterror of "The Scarlet Letter"; but it is hardly noted in the throng ofsymbols, equally pertinent, in the few pages of the little sketch fromwhich we have quoted.

Two characteristics of Hawthorne's genius stand plainly out, in theconduct and characterization of the romance of "The Scarlet Letter,"which were less obviously prominent in his previous works. The firstrelates to his subordination of external incidents to inward events.Mr. James's "solitary horseman" does more in one chapter thanHawthorne's hero in twenty chapters; but then James deals with the armsof men, while Hawthorne deals with their souls. Hawthorne relies almostentirely for the interest of his story on what is felt and done withinthe minds of his characters. Even his most picturesque descriptions andnarratives are only one-tenth matter to nine-tenths spirit. The resultsthat follow from one external act of folly or crime are to him enoughfor an Iliad of woes. It might be supposed that his whole theory ofRomantic Art was based on these tremendous lines of Wordsworth:--

"Action is momentary,-- The motion of a muscle, this way or that: Suffering is long, obscure, and infinite."

The second characteristic of his genius is connected with the first.With his insight of individual souls he combines a far deeper insightof the spiritual laws which govern the strangest aberrations ofindividual souls. But it seems to us that his mental eye, keen-sightedand far-sighted as it is, overlooks the merciful modifications of theaustere code whose pitiless action it so clearly discerns. In his longand patient brooding over the spiritual phenomena of Puritan life, itis apparent, to the least critical observer, that he has imbibed a deeppersonal antipathy to the Puritanic ideal of character; but it is noless apparent that his intellect and imagination have been strangelyfascinated by the Puritanic idea of justice. His brain has been subtlyinfected by the Puritanic perception of Law, without being warmed bythe Puritanic faith in Grace. Individually, he would much prefer tohave been one of his own "Seven Vagabonds" rather than one of theausterest preachers of the primitive church of New England; but theausterest preacher of the primitive church of New England would havebeen more tender and considerate to a real Mr. Dimmesdale and a realHester Prynne than this modern romancer has been to their typicalrepresentatives in the world of imagination. Throughout "The ScarletLetter" we seem to be following the guidance of an author who ispersonally good-natured, but intellectually and morally relentless.

"The House of the Seven Gables," Hawthorne's next work, while it hasless concentration of passion and tension of mind than "The ScarletLetter," includes a wider range of observation, reflection, andcharacter; and the morality, dreadful as fate, which hung like a blackcloud over the personages of the previous story, is exhibited in morerelief. Although the book has no imaginative creation equal to littlePearl, it still contains numerous examples of characterization at oncedelicate and deep. Clifford, especially, is a study in psychology, aswell as a marvellously subtile delineation of enfeebled manhood. Thegeneral idea of the story is this,--"that the wrong-doing of onegeneration lives into the successive ones, and, divesting itself ofevery temporary advantage, becomes a pure and uncontrollable mischief";and the mode in which this idea is carried out shows great force,fertility, and refinement of mind. A weird fancy, sporting with thefacts detected by a keen observation, gives to every gable of the SevenGables, every room in the House, every burdock growing rankly beforethe door, a symbolic significance. The queer mansion ishaunted,--haunted with thoughts which every moment are liable to takeghostly shape. All the Pyncheons who have resided in it appear to haveinfected the very timbers and walls with the spiritual essence of theirlives, and each seems ready to pass from a memory into a presence. Thestern theory of the author regarding the hereditary transmission offamily qualities, and the visiting of the sins of the fathers on theheads of their children, almost wins our reluctant assent through thepertinacity with which the generations of the Pyncheon race are madenot merely to live in the blood and brain of their descendants, but tocling to their old abiding-place on earth, so that to inhabit the houseis to breathe the Pyncheon soul and assimilate the Pyncheonindividuality. The whole representation, masterly as it is, consideredas an effort of intellectual and imaginative power, would still bemorally bleak, were it not for the sunshine and warmth radiated fromthe character of Phoebe. In this delightful creation Hawthorne for oncegives himself up to homely human nature, and has succeeded indelineating a New-England girl, cheerful, blooming, practical,affectionate, efficient, full of innocence and happiness, with all the"handiness" and native sagacity of her class, and so true and close toNature that the process by which she is slightly idealized iscompletely hidden.

In this romance there is also more humor than in any of his otherworks. It peeps out, even in the most serious passages, in a kind ofdemure rebellion against the fanaticism of his remorselessintelligence. In the description of the Pyncheon poultry, which wethink unexcelled by anything in Dickens for quaintly fanciful humor,the author seems to indulge in a sort of parody on his own doctrine ofthe hereditary transmission of family qualities. At any rate, thatstrutting chanticleer, with his two meagre wives and one wizenedchicken, is a sly side fleer at the tragic aspect of the law ofdescent. Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon, her shop, and her customers, are sodelightful, that the reader would willingly spare a good deal ofClifford and Judge Pyncheon and Holgrave, for more details of them andPhoebe. Uncle Venner, also, the old wood-sawyer, who boasts "that hehas seen a good deal of the world, not only in people's kitchens andback-yards, but at the street-corners, and on the wharves, and in otherplaces where his business" called him, and who, on the strength of thiscomprehensive experience, feels qualified to give the final decision inevery case which tasks the resources of human wisdom, is a very muchmore humane and interesting gentleman than the Judge. Indeed, onecannot but regret that Hawthorne should be so economical of hisundoubted stores of humor,--and that, in the two romances he has sincewritten, humor, in the form of character, does not appear at all.

Before proceeding to the consideration of "The Blithedale Romance," itis necessary to say a few words on the seeming separation ofHawthorne's genius from his will. He has none of that ability whichenabled Scott and enables Dickens to force their powers into action,and to make what was begun in drudgery soon assume the character ofinspiration. Hawthorne cannot thus use his genius; his genius alwaysuses him. This is so true, that he often succeeds better in what callsforth his personal antipathies than in what calls forth his personalsympathies. His life of General Pierce, for instance, is altogetherdestitute of life; yet in writing it he must have exerted himself tothe utmost, as his object was to urge the claims of an old and dearfriend to the Presidency of the Republic. The style, of course, isexcellent, as it is impossible for Hawthorne to write bad English, butthe genius of the man has deserted him. General Pierce, whom he loves,he draws so feebly, that one doubts, while reading the biography, ifsuch a man exists; Hollingsworth, whom he hates, is so vividlycharacterized, that the doubt is, while we read the romance, whethersuch a man can possibly be fictitious.

Midway between such a work as the "Life of General Pierce" and "TheScarlet Letter" may be placed "The Wonder-Book" and "Tanglewood Tales."In these Hawthorne's genius distinctly appears, and appears in its mostlovable, though not in its deepest form. These delicious stories,founded on the mythology of Greece, were written for children, but theydelight men and women as well. Hawthorne never pleases grown people somuch as when he writes with an eye to the enjoyment of little people.

Now "The Blithedale Romance" is far from being so pleasing aperformance as "Tanglewood Tales," yet it very much better illustratesthe operation, indicates the quality, and expresses the power, of theauthor's genius. His great books appear not so much created by him asthrough him. They have the character of revelations,--he, theinstrument, being often troubled with the burden they impose on hismind. His profoundest glances into individual souls are like themarvels of clairvoyance. It would seem, that, in the production of sucha work as "The Blithedale Romance," his mind had hit accidentally, asit were, on an idea or fact mysteriously related to some morbidsentiment in the inmost core of his nature, and connecting itself withnumerous scattered observations of human life, lying unrelated in hisimagination. In a sort of meditative dream, his intellect drifts in thedirection to which the subject points, broods patiently over it, looksat it, looks into it, and at last looks through it to the law by whichit is governed. Gradually, individual beings, definite in spiritualquality, but shadowy in substantial form, group themselves around thiscentral conception, and by degrees assume an outward body andexpression corresponding to their internal nature. On the depth andintensity of the mental mood, the force of the fascination it exertsover him, and the length of time it holds him captive, depend thesolidity and substance of the individual characterizations. In this wayMiles Coverdale, Hollingsworth, Westervelt, Zenobia, and Priscillabecome real persons to the mind which has called them into being. Heknows every secret and watches every motion of their souls, yet is, ina measure, independent of them, and pretends to no authority by whichhe can alter the destiny which consigns them to misery or happiness.They drift to their doom by the same law by which they drifted acrossthe path of his vision. Individually, he abhors Hollingsworth, andwould like to annihilate Westervelt, yet he allows the superb Zenobiato be their victim; and if his readers object that the effect of thewhole representation is painful, he would doubtless agree with them,but profess his incapacity honestly to alter a sentence. He professesto tell the story as it was revealed to him; and the license in which aromancer might indulge is denied to a biographer of spirits. Show him afallacy in his logic of passion and character, point out a false ordefective step in his analysis, and he will gladly alter the whole toyour satisfaction; but four human souls, such as he has described,being given, their mutual attractions and repulsions will end, he feelsassured, in just such a catastrophe as he has stated.

Eight years have passed since "The Blithedale Romance" was written, andduring nearly the whole of this period Hawthorne has resided abroad."The Marble Faun," which must, on the whole, be considered the greatestof his works, proves that his genius has widened and deepened in thisinterval, without any alteration or modification of its characteristicmerits and characteristic defects. The most obvious excellence of thework is the vivid truthfulness of its descriptions of Italian life,manners, and scenery; and, considered merely as a record of a tour inItaly, it is of great interest and attractiveness. The opinions on Art,and the special criticisms on the masterpieces of architecture,sculpture, and painting, also possess a value of their own. The storymight have been told, and the characters fully represented, inone-third of the space devoted to them, yet description and narrationare so artfully combined that each assists to give interest to theother. Hawthorne is one of those true observers who concentrate inobservation every power of their minds. He has accurate sight andpiercing insight. When he modifies either the form or the spirit of theobjects he describes, he does it either by viewing them through themedium of an imagined mind or by obeying associations which theythemselves suggest. We might quote from the descriptive portions of thework a hundred pages, at least, which would demonstrate how closelyaccurate observation is connected with the highest powers of theintellect and imagination.

The style of the book is perfect of its kind, and, if Hawthorne hadwritten nothing else, would entitle him to rank among the great mastersof English composition. Walter Savage Landor is reported to have saidof an author whom he knew in his youth, "My friend wrote excellentEnglish, a language now obsolete." Had "The Marble Faun" appearedbefore he uttered this sarcasm, the wit of the remark would have beenpointless. Hawthorne not only writes English, but the sweetest,simplest, and clearest English that ever has been made the vehicle ofequal depth, variety, and subtilty of thought and emotion. His mind isreflected in his style as a face is reflected in a mirror; and thelatter does not give back its image with less appearance of effort thanthe former. His excellence consists not so much in using common wordsas in making common words express uncommon things. Swift, Addison,Goldsmith, not to mention others, wrote with as much simplicity; butthe style of neither embodies an individuality so complex, passions sostrange and intense, sentiments so fantastic and preternatural,thoughts so profound and delicate, and imaginations so remote from therecognized limits of the ideal, as find an orderly outlet in the pureEnglish of Hawthorne. He has hardly a word to which Mrs. Trimmer wouldprimly object, hardly a sentence which would call forth the frostyanathema of Blair, Hurd, Kames, or Whately, and yet he contrives toembody in his simple style qualities which would almost excuse theverbal extravagances of Carlyle.

In regard to the characterization and plot of "The Marble Faun," thereis room for widely varying opinions. Hilda, Miriam, and Donatello willbe generally received as superior in power and depth to any ofHawthorne's previous creations of character; Donatello, especially,must be considered one of the most original and exquisite conceptionsin the whole range of romance; but the story in which they appear willseem to many an unsolved puzzle, and even the tolerant andinterpretative "gentle reader" will be troubled with the unsatisfactoryconclusion. It is justifiable for a romancer to sting the curiosity ofhis readers with a mystery, only on the implied obligation to explainit at last; but this story begins in mystery only to end in mist. Thesuggestive faculty is tormented rather than genially excited, and inthe end is left a prey to doubts. The central idea of the story, thenecessity of sin to convert such a creature as Donatello into a moralbeing, is also not happily illustrated in the leading event. WhenDonatello kills the wretch who malignantly dogs the steps of Miriam,all readers think that Donatello committed no sin at all; and thereason is, that Hawthorne has deprived the persecutor of Miriam of allhuman attributes, made him an allegorical representation of one of themost fiendish forms of unmixed evil, so that we welcome his destructionwith something of the same feeling with which, in following theallegory of Spenser or Bunyan, we rejoice in the hero's victory overthe Blatant Beast or Giant Despair. Conceding, however, thatDonatello's act was murder, and not "justifiable homicide," we arestill not sure that the author's conception of his nature and of thechange caused in his nature by that act, are carried out with afelicity corresponding to the original conception.

In the first volume, and in the early part of the second, the author'shold on his design is comparatively firm, but it somewhat relaxes as heproceeds, and in the end it seems almost to escape from his grasp. Fewcan be satisfied with the concluding chapters, for the reason thatnothing is really concluded. We are willing to follow the ingeniousprocesses of Calhoun's deductive logic, because we are sure, that,however severely they task the faculty of attention, they will lead tosome positive result; but Hawthorne's logic of events leaves us in theend bewildered in a labyrinth of guesses. The book is, on the whole,such a great book, that its defects are felt with all the more force.

In this rapid glance at some of the peculiarities of Hawthorne'sgenius, we have not, of course, been able to do full justice to thespecial merits of the works we have passed in review; but we trust thatwe have said nothing which would convey the impression that we do notplace them among the most remarkable romances produced in an age inwhich romance-writing has called forth some of the highest powers ofthe human mind. In intellect and imagination, in the faculty ofdiscerning spirits and detecting laws, we doubt if any living novelistis his equal; but his genius, in its creative action, has beenheretofore attracted to the dark rather than the bright side of theinterior life of humanity, and the geniality which evidently is in himhas rarely found adequate expression. In the many works which he maystill be expected to write, it is to be hoped that his mind will losesome of its sadness of tone without losing any of its subtilty anddepth; but, in any event, it would be unjust to deny that he hasalready done enough to insure him a commanding position in Americanliterature as long as American literature has an existence.

The zeal with which the study of Dante has been followed by students inevery country of Europe, during the last forty years, is one of themost illustrative facts of the moral as well as of the intellectualcharacter of the period. The interest which has attracted men of themost different tempers and persuasions to this study is not due aloneto the poetic or historic value of his works, however high we may placethem in these respects, but also and especially to the circumstancethat they present a complete and distinct view of the internal life andspiritual disposition of an age in which the questions which stillchiefly concern men were for the first time positively stated, andwhich exhibited in its achievements and its efforts some of the highestqualities of human nature in a condition of vigor such as they havenever since shown. Dante himself combined a power of imagination beyondthat of any other poet with an intensity and directness of individualcharacter not less extraordinary. The tendency of modern civilizationis to diminish rather than to strengthen the originality andindependence of individuals. Autocracy and democracy seem to have alike effect in reducing men to a uniform level of thought and effort.And thus during a time when these two principles have been brought intosharp conflict, it is not surprising that the most thoughtful studentsshould turn to the works of a man who by actual experience, or by forceof imagination, comprehended all the conditions of his own age, andexhibited in his life and in his writings an individualism of thenoblest sort. The conservative and the reformer, the king and theradical, the priest and the heretic, the man of affairs and the man ofletters, have taken their seats, side by side, on the scholars'benches, before the same teacher, and, after listening to his largediscourse, have discussed among themselves the questions in religion,in philosophy, in morals, politics, or history, which his wordssuggested or explained.

The success which has attended these studies has been in some degreeproportioned to the zeal with which they have been pursued. Dante isnow better understood and more intelligently commented than everbefore. Much remains to be done as regards the clearing up of somedifficult points and the explanation of some dark passages,--and theobscurity in which Dante intentionally involved some portions of hiswritings is such as to leave little hope that their absolute meaningwill ever be satisfactorily established. The history of the study ofthe poet, of the comments on his meaning or his text, of the formationof the commonly received text, and of the translations of the "DivinaCommedia," affords much curious and entertaining matter to the lover ofpurely literary and bibliographic narrative, and incidentallyillustrates the general character of each century since his death. Asregards the settlement of the text, no single publication has everappeared of equal value to that of the magnificent volume the title ofwhich stands at the head of this notice. Lord Vernon has been known formany years as the most munificent fosterer of Dantesque publications.One after another, precious and costly books upon Dante have appeared,edited and printed at his expense, showing both a taste and aliberality as honorable as unusual.

The first four editions of the "Divina Commedia," of which this volumeis a reprint, are all of excessive rarity. Although each is a documentof the highest importance in determining the text, few of the editorsof the poem have had the means of consulting more than one or two ofthem. The volumes are to be found united only in the Library of theBritish Museum, and it is but a few years that even that greatcollection has included them all. They were printed originally between1470 and 1480 at Foligno, Jesi, Mantua, and Naples; and their chiefvalue arises from the fact that they present the various readings ofthree, if not four, early and selected manuscripts. The doubt whetherfour manuscripts are represented by them is occasioned by thesimilarity between the editions of Foligno and Naples, which are ofsuch a sort (for instance, correspondence in the most unlikely and oddmisprints) as to prove that one must have served as the basis of theother. But at the same time there are such differences between them asindicate a separate revision of each, and possibly the consultation bytheir editors of different codices.

Unfortunately, there is no edition of the "Divina Commedia" which canclaim any special authority,--none which has even in a small degreesuch authority as belongs to the first folio of Shakspeare's plays. Thetext, as now received, rests upon a comparison of manuscripts and earlyprinted editions; and as affording to scholars the means of anindependent critical judgment upon it, a knowledge of the readings ofthese earliest editions is indispensable. But reprints of old books areproverbially open to error. The reprint of the first folio Shakspeareis so full of mistakes as to be of comparatively little use. Thecharacter of the Italian language is such that inaccuracies are botheasier and more dangerous than in English. Unless the reprint of thefirst four editions were literally correct, it would be of littlevalue. To secure this correctness, so far as was possible, Lord Vernonengaged Mr. Panizzi, the chief librarian of the British Museum, to editthe volume. A more competent editor never lived. Mr. Panizzi isdistinguished not more for his thorough and appreciative acquaintancewith the poetic literature of his country than for the extent andaccuracy of his bibliographical knowledge and the refinement of hisbibliographic skill. There can be no doubt that the reprint is as exactas the most rigid critic could desire. It is a monument of patience andof unpretending labor, as well as of typographic beauty,--the work ofthe editor having been well seconded by that well-known disciple ofAldus, Mr. Charles Whittingham.

Nor is it only in essential variations that these four texts areimportant, but also in the illustration which their different spellingand their varying grammatical forms afford in regard to the languageused by Dante. At the time when these editions appeared, theorthography of the Italian tongue was not yet established, and itsgrammatical inflections not in all cases definitely settled. Printinghad not yet been long enough in use to fix a permanent form upon words.Moreover, the misprints themselves, which in these early editions arevery numerous, often give hints as to the changes which they may haveinduced, or as to the misplacing of letters most likely to occur, andconsequently most likely to lead to unobserved errors of the text.

The style of the printing in these first editions, and the aid it maygive, or the difficulty it may occasion, are hardly to be understoodwithout an extract. We open at _Paradiso_, xv. 70. Cacciaguida has justspoken to his descendant, and then follows, according to the Foligno,the following passage:--

"I turned to Beatrice, and she heard before I spoke, and smiled on me asign which added wings to my desire. Then I began thus: Love andwisdom, as soon as the primal Equality has appeared to you, become ofone weight in each one of you; since in that Sun, which illuminates andwarms you with heat and light, they are so equal, that every comparisonfalls short."

The three other ancient texts are each quite as different from themodern one as that which we have given, nor is the passage one thataffords example of unusual variations. It would have been easy toselect many others varying much more than this, but our object is toshow the general character of these first editions. The second line ofthe quotation offers a various reading which is supported by the_arrossemi_ of the Jesi edition, and the _arossemi_ of that of Naples,as well as by the text of the comment of Benvenuto da Imola, and someother early authorities. But even were the weight of evidence in itsfavor far greater than it is, it could never be received in place ofthe thoroughly Dantesque and exquisite expression, _arrisemi un cenno_,which is found in the Mantua edition. The _napparse_ and the _noi_ ofthe fifth and sixth lines and the _nallumo_ of the seventh are plainlymistakes of the scribe, puzzled by the somewhat obscure meaning of thepassage. Not one of the four editions before us gives us the rightpronouns, but they are found in the Bartolinian codex, (as well as manyothers,) and they are established in the rare Aldine edition of 1502,the chief source of the modern text. In the eighth line, where we nowread _en si iguali_, the four give us _et_ or _e si iguali_, a readingfrom which it is difficult to extract a meaning, unless, with theBartolinian, we omit the _che_ in the preceding line, and suppose the_pero chel_ to stand, not for _perocche al_, but for _peroccheil_,--or, retaining the _che_, read the first words _perocch' e ilSol_, and take the clause as a parenthesis. The meaning, according tothe first supposition, would be, "Love and wisdom are of one measure inyou, (since the Sun [_sc._ the primal Equality] warmed and enlightenedyou,) and so equal that," etc. According to the second supposition, weshould translate, "Since it [the primal Equality] is the sun which,"etc. Benvenuto da Imola gives still a third reading, making the _e siiguali_ into _ee si iguale_, or, in modern orthography, _e si iguale_;but, as this spoils the rhyme, it may be left out of account. Thereseems to us to be some ground for believing the second readingsuggested above,

to be the true one, not only from its correspondence with most of theearly copies, but from the rarity of the use of _en_ by Dante. There isbut one other passage in the poem where it is found (_Purgatory_, xvi.121).

Such is an example, taken at random, of the doubts suggested and theillustration afforded by these editions in the study of the text. Ofcourse such minute criticism is of interest only to those few whoreckon Dante's words at their true worth. The common reader may becontent with the text as he finds it in common editions, But Dante,more than any other author, stimulates his student to research as tohis exact words; for no other author has been so choice in hisselection of them. He is not only the greatest modern master ofcondensation in style, but he has the deepest insight into the valueand force of separate words, the most delicate sense of appropriatenessin position, and in the highest degree the poetic faculty of selectingthe word most fitting for the thought and most characteristic inexpression. It rarely happens that the place of a word of anyimportance is a matter of indifference in his verse, no regard beinghad to the rhythm; and every one sufficiently familiar with thelanguage in which he wrote to be conscious of its indefinable powerswill feel, though he may be unable to point out specifically, a markeddistinction in the quality and combinations of the words in thedifferent parts of the poem. The description of the entrance to Hell,in the third canto of the _Inferno_ is, for instance, hardly moredifferent from the description of the Terrestrial Paradise,(_Purgatory_, xxviii.,) in scenery and imagery, than it is in the vaguebut absolute qualities of language, in its rhythmical and verbalessence.

But, leaving these subtilties, let us look at some of the disputedpassages of the poem, upon which the texts before us may give theirevidence.

In the episode of Francesca da Rimini, Mr. Barlow has recentlyattempted to give currency to a various reading long known, but neveraccepted, in the line (_Inferno_, v. 102) in which Francesca expressesher horror at the manner of her death. She says, _il modo ancor m'offende_, "the manner still offends me." But for _il modo_ Mr. Barlowwould substitute _il mondo_, "the world still offends me,"--that is, aswe suppose, by holding a false opinion of her conduct. Mr. Barlow'ssuggestions are always to be received with respect, but we cannot butthink him wrong in proposing this change. The spirits in Hell are notsupposed to be aware of what is passing upon earth; they areself-convicted, (_Purgatory_, xxvi. 85, 86,) and Francesca being doomedto eternal woe, the world could not do her wrong by taxing her withsin; while, further, the shudder at the method of her death, lastingeven in torment, seems to us a far more imaginative conception than theone proposed in its stead. Our four texts read _elmodo_.

In the famous simile (_Inferno_, iii. 112-114) in which Dante comparesthe spirits falling from the bank of Acheron to the dead leavesfluttering from a bough in autumn, giving, as Mr. Ruskin says, "themost perfect image possible of their utter lightness, feebleness,passiveness, and scattering agony of despair," our common texts have

infin che il ramo Rende alla terra tutte le sue spoglie,

"Until the branch gives to the earth all its spoils"; but the texts ofJesi and Mantua, as well as those of the Bartolinian and the Aldus, andmany other early authorities, here put the word _Vede_ in place of_Rende_, giving a variation which for its poetic worth well deserves tobe marked, if not to be introduced into the received text. "Until thebranch sees all its spoils upon the earth" is a personification quitein Dante's manner. A confirmation of the value of this reading is givenby the fact that Tasso preferred it to the more common one, and in histreatise on the "Art of Poetry" praises it as full of energy.

The value of this work of Lord Vernon's to the students of Dante, inenabling them to secure accuracy in their statements in regard to theearly texts, has been illustrated to us by finding that Blanc, in hisuseful and excellent "Vocabolario Dantesco," has not unfrequentlyfallen into error through his inability to consult those firsteditions. For example, in the line, (_Inferno_, xviii. 43,) _Percio afiguralo i piedi affissi_, as it is commonly given, or, _Percio afirgurarlo gli occhi affissi_, as it appears in some editions, Blanc,who prefers the latter reading, states that _gli occhi_ is found in_"toutes les anciennes editions."_ But the truth is, that those ofFoligno and Naples read _ipedi_, that of Jesi has _in piedi_, and thatof Mantua _i pie_. The Aldine of 1502 is the earliest edition we haveseen which has _gli occhi_.

In the episode of Ugolino, (_Inferno,_ xxxiii.,) the verse which hasgiven rise to more comment, perhaps than any other is that (the 26th)in which the Count says, according to the usual reading, that thenarrow window in his tower had shown him many moons before he dreamedhis evil dream: _Piu lune gia, quand' i' feci il mal sonno,_ "Manymoons already, when I had my ill slumber." But another reading, foundin a majority of the early MSS. and editions, including those of Jesiand Mantua gives the variation, _piu lume;_ while the editions ofFoligno and Naples give _lieve_, which, affording no intelligiblemeaning, must be regarded as a mere misprint. In spite of the weightof early authority for _lume_, the reading _lune_ is perhaps to bepreferred, as giving in a word a brief expressive statement of a wearylength of imprisonment,--while _lume_ would only serve to fix themoment of the dream as having been between the first dawn and the fullday. It is rare that the difference between an _n_ and an _m_ is ofsuch marked effect.

In the sixth canto of _Purgatory_, verse 58, Virgil says, "Behold therea soul which _a posta_ looks toward us." Such at least is the commonreading, and the words _a posta_ are explained as meaning _fixedly._But this signification is somewhat forced, _a posta_, or _apposta_,being more properly used with the meaning of _on purpose_ or_deliberately_,--and the first four editions supply a reading withoutthis difficulty, and one which adds a new and significant feature tothe description. They unite in the omission of the letter _a_. Thepassage then bears the meaning,--"But behold there a soul which,_fixed_, or _placed_, alone and all apart, looks toward us." Thisreading, beside being supported by the weight of ancient authority,finds confirmation, in the context, in the terms in which Sordello'saspect is described: "How lofty and disdainful didst thou stand! howslow and decorous in the moving of thy eyes!"

A curious example of the mistakes of the old copies is afforded in thecharming description of the Terrestrial Paradise in the twenty-eighthcanto of the _Purgatory_. Dante says, that the leaves on the trees,trembling in the soft air, were not so disturbed that the little birdsin their tops ceased from any of their arts,--

che gli augelletti per le cime Lasciasser d' operare ogni lor arte.

The lines are so plain that a mistake is difficult in them; but, of ourfour editions, the Jesi is the only one which gives them correctly.Foligno and Naples read _angeleti_ for _augelletti_, while Mantua givesus the astonishing word _intelletti_. Again, in line 98 of the samecanto, all four read, _exaltation dell' acqua_, for the simple andcorrect _esalazion dell' acqua_. And in line 131, for _Eunoe sichiama_, Jesi supplies the curious word _curioce si chiama_.

These examples of error are not of great importance in themselves, andare easily corrected, but they serve to illustrate the great frequencyof error in all the early texts of the "Divina Commedia," and theprobability that many errors not so readily discovered may still existin the text, making difficulties where none originally existed. Theyare of value, furthermore, in the wider range of critical studies, asillustrating in a striking way the liability to error which existed inall books so long as they were preserved only by the work of scribes.Here is a poem which was transmitted in manuscript for only about onehundred and fifty years, the first four printed editions of which showdifferences in almost every line. It is no exaggeration to say that thevariations between the editions of Foligno, Jesi, and Mantua, inorthography, inflection, and other grammatical and dialectic forms, notto speak of the less frequent, though still numerous differences in thewords themselves, greatly exceed, throughout the poem, the number oflines of which it is composed. Yet by a comparison of them one withanother a consistent and generally satisfactory text has been formed.The bearing of this upon the views to be taken of the condition of thetext of more ancient works, as, for instance, that of the Gospels, isplain.

The work before us is so full of matter interesting to the student ofDante, that we are tempted to go on with further illustrations of it,though well aware that there are few who have zeal or patience enoughto continue the examination with us. But the number of those in Americawho are beginning to read the "Divina Commedia," as something more thana mere exercise in the Italian language, is increasing, and some ofthem, at least, will take pleasure with us in this inquiry concerningthe words, that is, the thoughts of Dante. Why should the minute, butnot fruitless criticism of texts be reserved for the ancient classicwriters? The great poet of the Middle Ages deserves this work at ourhands far more than any of the Latin poets, not excluding even his ownmaster and guide.

The eleventh canto of the _Paradiso_ is chiefly occupied with the noblenarrative of the life of St. Francis. Reading it as we do, at such adistance from the time of the events which it records, and withfeelings that have never been warmed into fervor by the facts or thelegends concerning the Saint, it is hard for us to appreciate at itsfull worth the beauty of this canto, and its effect upon those who hadseen and conversed with the first Franciscans. Not a century had yetpassed since the death of St. Francis, and the order which he hadfounded kept his memory alive in every part of the Catholic world. Astory which may be true or false, and it matters little which, tells usthat Dante himself in his early manhood had proposed to enter itsranks. There is no doubt that its vows of poverty and chastity, itsarduous but invigorating rule during its early days, appealed withstrong force to his temperament and his imagination, as promising awithdrawal from those worldly temptations of which he was conscious,from that pressure of private and public affairs of which he wasimpatient. The contrast between the effects which the life of St.Francis and that of St. Dominic had upon the poet's mind is shown bythe contrast in tone in which in successive cantos he tells of thesetwo great pillars of the Church.

In lines 71 and 72, speaking of Poverty, the bride of the Saint, hesays,--

Si che dove Maria rimase giuso, Ella con Cristo salse in sulia croce:

"So that whilst Mary remained below, she mounted the cross withChrist," Such is the common reading. Now in all four of the editionswhich are in Lord Vernon's reprint, in Benvenuto da Imola, in theBartolinian codex, in the precious codex of Cortona, and in many otherearly manuscripts and editions, the word _pianse_ is found in the placeof _salse_; "She lamented upon the cross with Christ." The antithesis,though less direct, is not less striking, and the phrase seems to us tobecome simpler, more natural, and more touching. Yet this reading hasfound little favor with recent editors, and one of them goes so far asto say, "che non solo impoverisce, ma adultera l' idea."

Passing over other variations, some of them of importance, in thiseleventh canto, we find the last verses standing in most moderneditions,--

And the meaning is explained as being,--"And he who is girt with aleathern cord (_i.e._ the Dominican) will see what is meant by 'Wherewell they fatten, if they do not stray.'" But to this there are severalobjections. No other example of _coreggier_ thus used is, we believe,to be found. Moreover, the introduction of a Dominican to learn thislesson is forced, for it was Dante himself who had had a doubt as tothe meaning of these words, and it was for his instruction that thediscourse in which they were explained was held. We prefer, therefore,the reading which is found in the editions of Jesi, Foligno, andNaples, (in part in that of Mantua,) and which is given by many otherancient texts: _Vedrai_ or _E vedrai il correger che argomenta:_ "Thouwilt see the reproof which 'Where well they fatten, if they do notstray,' conveys." This reading has been adopted by Mr. Cayley in hisremarkable translation.

One more instance of the value of Lord Vernon's work, and we have done.The 106th, 107th, and 108th verses of the twenty-sixth canto of the_Paradiso_ are among the most difficult of the poem, and have givenrise to great variety of comment. In the edition of Florence of 1830,in those of Foscolo, and of Costa, and many others, they stand,--

And they are explained by Bianchi as meaning, "Because I see it in thattrue mirror (i. e. God) which makes other things like to themselves,(that is, represents them as they are,) while nothing can represent Himlike to Himself." Those who love the quarrels of commentators shouldlook at the notes in the Variorum editions of Padua or Florence to seewith what amusing asperity they have treated each other's solutions ofthe passage. Italian words of abuse have a sonorous quality which givesgrandeur to a skirmish of critics. One is declared by his opponent tohave _ingarbugliato_ the clearest meaning; another _guasta ilsentimento_ and _sproposita in grammatica_; a third brings _falso_ and_assurdo_ to the charge, and, not satisfied with their force, adds_blasfemo_; a fourth declares that the third has contrived _capovolgerela consegitenza_; and so on;--from all which the reader, trying to findshelter from the pelting of hard words, discovers that the meaning isnot clear even to the most confident of the critics. But, standingapart from the battle, and looking only at the text, and not at thebewildered comment, we find in the editions of Foligno, Jesi, andNaples, and in many other ancient texts, a reading which seems to ussomewhat easier than the one commonly adopted. We copy the lines afterthe Foligno:--

And we would translate them, "Because I see it in that true mirror whoin Himself affords a likeness to [or of] all other things, whilenothing gives back to Him a likeness of Himself." Here _pareglio_corresponds with the Provencal _parelh_ and the later French_pareil_,--and the Provencal phrase _rendre le parelha_ affords anexample of similar application to that of the word in Dante.

With us in America, criticism is not rated as it deserves; it is littlefollowed as a study, and the love for the great masters and poets ofother times and other tongues than our own fails to stimulate the ardorof students to the thorough examination of their thoughts and words. Nodoubt, criticism, as it has too often been pursued, is of small worth,displaying itself in useless inquiries, and lavishing time and laborupon insoluble and uninteresting questions. But such is not its trueend. Verbal criticism, rightly viewed, has a dignity which belongs tofew other studies; for it deals with words as the symbols ofthoughts,--with words, which are the most spiritual of the instrumentsof human power, the most marvellous of human possessions. It makesthought accurate, and perception fine. It adds truth to the creationsof imagination by teaching the modes by which they may be bestexpressed, and it thus leads to fuller and more appreciativeunderstanding and enjoyment of the noblest works of the past. Therecan, indeed, be no thorough culture without it.

To restore the balance of our lives, in these days of haste, novelty,and restlessness, there is a need of a larger infusion into them ofpursuits which have no end of immediate publicity or instant return oftangible profit,--of pursuits which, while separating us from theintrusive world around us, should introduce us into the freer,tranquiller, and more spacious world of noble and everlasting thought.The greener and lonelier precincts of our minds are now trampled uponby the hurrying feet of daily events and transient interests. If wewould keep that spiritual region unpolluted, we need to acquaintourselves with some other literature than that of newspapers andmagazines, and to entertain as familiars the men long dead, yet livingin their works. As Americans, our birthrights in the past areimperfect; we are born into the present alone. But he who lives only inpresent things lives but half a life, and death comes to him as animpertinent interruption: by living also in the past we learn to valuethe present at its worth, to hold ourselves ready for its end. WithDante, taking him as a guide and companion in our privater moods, wemay, even in the natural body, pass through the world of spirit.

It will be a good indication of the improvement in the intellectualdisposition of our people, when the study of Dante becomes moregeneral. Meanwhile, on the part of his few students in America, wewould offer our thanks to Lord Vernon and to Mr. Panizzi for the aidwhich the liberality of the one and the skill and learning of the otherhave given to us, and for the honor they have done to the memory of ourcommon Author and Leader.

There is, perhaps, no country with which we are so intimate as withItaly,--none of which we are always so willing to hear more. Poets andprosers have alike compared her to a beautiful woman; and while onefinds nothing but loveliness in her, another shudders at her fatalfascination. She is the very Witch-Venus of the Middle Ages. RogerAscham says, "I was once in _Italy_ myself, but I thank God my abodethere was but nine days; and yet I saw in that little time, in onecity, more liberty to sin than ever I heard tell of in our noble cityof London in nine years." He quotes triumphantly the proverb,--_Ingleseitalianato, diavolo incarnato_. A century later, the entertaining"Richard Lassels, Gent., who Travelled through Italy Five times asTutor to several of the _English_ Nobility and Gentry," and who is opento new engagements in that kind, declares, that, "For the Countryitself, it seemed to me to be _Nature's Darling_, and the _EldestSister_ of all other Countries; carrying away from them all thegreatest blessings and favours, and receiving such gracious looks fromthe _Sun_ and _Heaven_, that, if there be any fault in _Italy_, it is,that her Mother _Nature_ hath cockered her too much, even to make herbecome Wanton." Plainly, our Tannhaeuser is but too ready to go back tothe Venus-berg!

A new book on Italy seems a dangerous experiment. Has not all been toldand told and told again? Is it not one chief charm of the land, that itis changeless without being Chinese? Did not Abbot Samson, in 1159,_Scotti habitum induens_, (which must have shown his massive calves togreat advantage.) probably see much the same popular characteristicsthat Hawthorne saw seven hundred years later? Shall a man try to beentertaining after Montaigne, aesthetic after Winckelmann, wise afterGoethe, or trenchant after Forsyth? Can he hope to bring back anythingso useful as the _fork_, which honest Tom Coryate made prize of twocenturies and a half ago, and put into the greasy fingers of Northernbarbarians? Is not the "Descrittione" of Leandro Alberti still acompetent itinerary? And can one hope to pick up a fresh Latinquotation, when Addison and Eustace have been before him with theirscrap-baskets?

If there be anything which a person of even moderate accomplishmentsmay be presumed to know, it is Italy. The only open question left seemsto be, whether Shakespeare were the only man that could write his namewho had never been there. We have read our share of Italian travels,both in prose and verse, but, as the nicely discriminating Dutchmanfound that "too moch brahndee was too moch, but too moch lager-beer wasjost hright," so we are inclined to say that too much Italy is justwhat we want. After Des Brosses, we are ready for Henri Beyle, andAmpere, and Hillard, and About, and Gallenga, and Julia Kavanagh;"Corinne" only makes us hungry for George Sand. That no one can tell usanything new is as undeniable as the compensating fact that no one cantell us anything too old.

There are two kinds of travellers,--those who tell us what they went tosee, and those who tell us what they saw. The latter class are the onlyones whose journals are worth the sifting; and the value of their eyesdepends on the amount of individual character they took with them, andof the previous culture that had sharpened and tutored the faculty ofobservation. In our conscious age the frankness and naivete of theelder voyagers is impossible, and we are weary of those humorousconfidences on the subject of fleas with which we are favored by somemodern travellers, whose motto should be (slightly altered) fromHorace,--_Flea-bit, et toto cantabitur orbe._ A naturalistself-sacrificing enough may have this experience more cheaply at home.

The book before us is the record of a second residence in Italy, ofabout two years. This in itself is an advantage; since a renewedexperience, after an interval of absence and distraction, enables us todistinguish what had merely interested us by its strangeness from whatis permanently worthy of study and remembrance. In a second visit weknow at least what we do _not_ wish to see, and our first impressionshave so defined themselves that they afford us a safer standard ofcomparison. To most travellers Italy is a land of pure vacation, alotus-eating region, "in which it seemeth always afternoon." But Mr.Norton, whose book shows bow well his time had been employed at home,could not but spend it to good purpose abroad. The word "study" has aright to its place on his title-page, and his volume is worthy of astudent. He shows himself to be one who, like Wordsworth, "does notmuch or oft delight in personal talk"; there is no gossip between thecovers of his book, no impertinent self-obtrusion. Familiar with whathas been written about Italy by others, he has known how to avoid thetrite highways, and by going back to what was old has found topics thatare really fresh and delightful. The Italy of the ancient Romans is aforeign country to us, and must always continue so; but the Italy ofthe Middle Ages is nearer, not so much in time, as because there is noimpassable rift of religious faith, and consequently of ideas andmotives, between us and it. Far enough away in the centuries to bepicturesque, it is near enough in the sympathy of belief and thought tobe thoroughly intelligible. The chapter on the Brotherhood of theMisericordia at Florence is remarkably interesting, and the coincidencewhich Mr. Norton points out in a note between the circumstances whichled to its foundation and those in which a somewhat similar societyoriginated in California so lately as 1859 is not only curious, butpleasant, as showing that there is a natural piety proper to man in allages alike. In his account of the building of the Cathedral of Orvieto,and his notices of Rome as it was when Dante and Petrarch saw it, Mr.Norton has struck a rich vein, which we hope he will find time to workmore thoroughly hereafter. By the essential fairness of his mind, hispatience in investigation, and his sympathy with what is noble incharacter and morally influential in events, he seems to us peculiarlyfitted for that middle ground occupied by the historical essayist, towhom literature is something cooerdinate with politics, and who finds agreat book more eventful than a small battle.

But if, as a scholar and lover of Art, Mr. Norton naturally turns tothe past, he does not fail to tell us whatever he finds worth knowingin the present. His tone of mind and habitual subjects of thought maybe inferred from the character of the topics that interest him. Theglimpses he gives us of the actual condition of the people of Italy, asindicated by their practical conception of the religious dogmas oftheir Church, by the quality of the cheap literature that is popularamong them, of the tracts provided for their spiritual aliment byecclesiastical authority, and of the caricatures produced in 1848-9,(as in his notice of "Don Pirlone,") are of special value, and show thathe knows where to look for signs of what lies beneath the surface. Hisappreciation of the beautiful in Art has not been cultivated at theexpense of his interest in the moral, political, and physicalwell-being of man. His touching sketch of the life of Letterato, thefounder of Ragged Schools, shows that moral loveliness attracts hissympathy as much when embodied in a life of obscure usefulness as whenit gleams in the saints and angels of Fra Angelico. A conscientiousProtestant, he exposes the corruptions of the Established Church inItaly, not as an anti-Romanist, but because he sees that they arepractically operative in the social and political degradation of thepeople. What good there is never escapes his attention, and we learnfrom him much that is new and interesting concerning public charitiesand private efforts for the elevation of the lower orders. The miles ofstatuary in the Vatican do not weary him so much that he cannot atnight make the round of evening schools for the poor.

We have not read a pleasanter or more instructive book of Italiantravel than this. Mr. Norton's range of interest is so wide that we arerefreshed with continual variety of topic; and his style is pure,clear, and chaste, without any sacrifice of warmth or richness. It isalways especially agreeable to us to encounter an American who is ascholar in the true sense of the word, in which sense it is neverdissociated from gentleman. When, as in the present instance,scholarship is united with a deep and active interest in whateverconcerns the practical well-being of men, we have one of the bestresults of our modern civilization. We are no lovers of dilettantism,